The taxi driver pulls up where the tarmac ends at a small turning place, a rock face on one side, the sea on the other. Ahead, a little shingle trail leads off westwards along the southern shore of Loch Hourn.

"That's it, gents," he says, "As far as I can go."

We watch him turn the car and leave, then we set off immediately up the footpath. There is a threat of bad weather and we need to cover some ground while the going is good. Ahead lies 17 miles of wild coast, heather and rock, the higher ground dusted with some overnight frost. And this is the shortest route to our destination.

Unlike most walks, where one meanders to enjoy the view or does a complete circle, this is a direct footpath, the major land access route to what is the remotest village, and pub, in mainland Britain: Inverie on the Knoydart peninsula, a place only accessible on foot or by boat, but still viable for a weekend, especially as a smart new lodge has just opened there.

We are not travelling as light as I had hoped. A warning of cold weather had sent me and my walking friend Peter on a shopping spree in Fort William the evening before. Peter mused, jokingly, about crampons and ice axe. I went for a down jacket; he settled for thermal underwear.

By the sea loch we begin to dawdle. There are starfish and sea urchins in the cold clear waters, an otter makes a brief appearance, the cries of the gulls salt the air, clouds scud across the sky and a solitary golden patch of sunlight flees up the hillside opposite like a startled stag. We sit and drink our tea, far too early for a halt but we are unable to resist the dramatic panorama of the dawn – it is only just light.

Peter is a city man who recently got the nature bug – and a new type of bifocal contact lenses. It means he can read faster than a heron spearing sprats, but has trouble spotting the same bird at a hundred paces. As we walk, he talks enthusiastically about the new wave of British nature writing: Richard Mabey, Robert Macfarlane and his particular favourite, Tim Dee, author of The Running Sky. By lunchtime we have reached Barrisdale, where we must turn inland, climbing up across the peninsula. Mobile phone reception, we note, has disappeared.

Knoydart House holiday home. Photograph: Jackie Robertson

Few people outside the world's Amish communities have dared – or had the opportunity – to draw a line in the sand and say: technology up to this point, but no further. On Knoydart they have done so, refusing to host mobile phone masts. And that makes it a place apart, an area that stands aside from the rest of the world. It bathes these whiskery crags in a special light – rather than microwaves. And it made me want to go there. However, routes in are limited: a 40-minute ride on a fishing boat ferry from Mallaig, a three-day hike from Fort William via Glenfinnan, or the route we had chosen, a day's walk from Kinlochhourn.

Up on the wind-scoured pass, we look back at Loch Hourn and ahead for Loch Nevis. Locals say that in Gaelic, Hourn means Hell while Nevis means Heaven, which leaves the 80,000 acres of Knoydart trapped between the two. The closer to that heavenly southern shore we get, however, the worse the weather. A vicious wind cuts up the valley, bringing sleet and rain. By the time we pass the small loch of Dubh-Lochain, the hillsides are running with streams that come tumbling down, dodging the tumuli of vivid green mosses, their colour almost luminescent in the fading light. We reach the last woods in darkness and out of the gloom comes a great shaggy monster, a giant sporran with horns, the gatekeeper of this entrance to heaven: a Highland bull.

We edge past him and make it to the village, which is in darkness except for a light at the far end, near the storm-battered jetty. It's the pub, and I push open the door, silently recalling the scene where the travellers arrive at the Slaughtered Lamb in An American Werewolf in London. We need not have worried, however: this pub is famously amiable and welcoming. Pints are pulled, questions about who we are and where we came from fielded. Stools are fetched. We are absorbed into a convivial fug.

Ian Robertson, who runs the place with his wife Jackie, comes to join us. "Do you want to try the scallops?" he asks. "They're very good – and that's the man who caught them – right next to you."

The Old Forge (01687 462 267, theoldforge.co.uk) has a reputation not only for good food, but for good music and dancing. "That's true," Ian says. "We've had some great nights. But no one can predict when music will happen."

Impromptu music session at the Old Forge. Photograph: Jackie Robertson

Helpfully, Ian has planted instruments around the walls and deliberately not installed television or games machines. "It's a mood that takes someone and then others join in." In other words, it is a communal feeling that bursts forth – most reliably on a Friday, apparently. And Knoydart is definitely – perhaps defiantly – a community. After the Highland Clearances (a euphemism for forced displacement) cut its population from 1,000 to around 50 by the end of the 19th century, the peninsula was run by landlords, some well-meaning, others downright crooked. Ian was estate manager in the last dark days of absentee landlordism, and often went for months without pay.

By 1999, the inhabitants were desperate and pushed, at last, for a community buyout. When it happened in 2001, there was great joy and celebration. Ten years on, the school is flourishing, as is the whole community. Jackie and Ian have built Knoydart House, a luxurious holiday home a few hundred yards away with an outdoor hot tub from which guests can enjoy the stunning loch views. There's a music festival in the spring, and in summer the yacht moorings are always full.

Not all, however, is harmonious.

"There are those who want mobile phone signals," says Ian, "And broadband and all that. There's changes to the accountancy rules for holiday homes that will effect some. And...," he looks rueful, "we are selling the pub."

To say that the Old Forge is lynchpin and centre of the community would be an understatement. News of the sale has caused consternation far beyond Knoydart. But Ian is determined. "I'm 65 this year. I want to step away from the business and do other things."

Then it seems as though deep memories of times when landlords could buy and sell at will are being churned up. But things are different now. Ian has no plans to leave Knoydart and he – like every regular – wants the pub to stay much the same. "We won't sell to anyone. They have to be right."

It seems that press reports of the demise of this wonderful, if remote, boozer have been premature.

Next day we walk the coastline, visiting some of the beautiful beaches. Unfortunately, the wind and rain have not relented, but the wild drama of the place is seductive. And so is the pub. Over a farewell pint we wait for the last ferry, a converted fishing boat from Mallaig. On board we meet a pair of Australian tourists.

"Didn't like London much," they tell us. "That new Jamie Oliver restaurant was rubbish. Glasgow was all tarmac – we spent most of our day on some god-awful ring road."

It is their first trip to Britain. Outside the wind is whipping spray off the swell and throwing it at us with insane fury. "And Knoydart?"